


How to Say Hello

by Goanna_Blue



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Conjunx Endura, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mech Preg (Transformers), Smut, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Transformer Sparklings, Unplanned Pregnancy, We'll see if some plot worms its way in there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28495455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goanna_Blue/pseuds/Goanna_Blue
Summary: This wasn't quite what Ratchet had meant when he said that he and Drift were settling downBut he can't exactly complain
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 16
Kudos: 94





	1. Something Small

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. This is my first foray into the world of idw mtmte fics (I just finished it + Lost light like a month or two a ago, they're so good??? Like what???) and after much deliberation I decided on... this. Idk, there's just something about the fluff and vulnerability of giving your OTP a baby, and I haven't seen much of that with Dratchet so I decided to give it a go.  
> This I guess takes place on our little 'ideal ending' Lost Light, where everyone is happy and alive and going on adventures, so ya.
> 
> Also the more Transformers media I consume the more I realize how much Bayverse really did Ratchet dirty like wtf? They slandered my boy.

Ratchet had a tiring, unrelenting propensity toward falling in with the more dynamic of the cybertronian race. Which was ironic considering he himself was a rather simple mech, or at least that was how he had always thought of himself.

He would pin it on some underlying fount of moral or tactical brilliance, but the truth was simply that game changers needed someone to balance them out. Bots like Optimus or Rodimus needed a voice of reason, a level head, and a first aid kit. Ratchet prided himself on playing the part of all three, and playing them well.

He had found, or rather  _ known  _ his purpose since so early in his life that he never felt the desire to seek anything other than the overtaxing life of a medic. He was good at it, maybe even the best at one point or another, he was  _ lucky _ . After all, people tended to keep you around when soldering a fuel line came as easily as venting.

His dear conjunx is a slightly different story.

Drift is a wanderer. He’s a lost soul in his own right; born into poverty, constantly trying to find his niche in a universe that isn’t built for him, one that doesn’t  _ deserve  _ him.

He had missed out on so much, the greater portion of his life having been spent in various incarnations of survival mode. Whether it was fighting tooth and nail for rank among the Decepticons or tearing his persona apart and piecing it back together just so he could correct his questioned loyalty to the side he had defected to. He’s still learning, learning how to not be beholden to anyone, how to live like the next day is never a question.

But Ratchet is infinitely grateful that he gets to witness the vibrancy and resilience that freedom had granted the tortured mech, even if having to listen to endless spectralist musings makes his plating crawl on occasion. He’s figuring out who he really is, and if that means Ratchet comes home to the overwhelming smell of exotic incense on occasion then so be it.

He’s not entirely sure how he’s managed to find himself worthy of bearing witness to such a marvel, but hell if he isn’t making the most of every moment. 

But Drift is here now, looking at him expectantly from his seated position on their shared berth, EM field a maelstrom of anxiety and hope and fear and a growing amount of confusion. He had told him something, something big. He’s waiting for a response.

“What did you say?” He asks like the daft idiot he is. Drift frowns.

“I’m sparked, Ratchet.” His voice shakes, arms folded across his chassis in an unusually guarded posture. 

Oh. Yeah, that. That… is certainly something.

“Are you sure?” That’s the wrong thing to say and he knows it. Drift _ glares _ . 

“Yes, I’m  _ sure _ , do you think I would be telling you if I was anything but  _ sure _ ?” 

Yeah, okay, wow.  _ Wow _ . 

Ratchet’s mouth opens and closes, before going silent once again.

He knows he should say something comforting, reassuring. But he can’t, he can’t find anything witty or good-natured to spit out like he normally would. He can’t correct the blank stare on his own face, nor can he find the mental dexterity to even absorb the information he’s just been provided.

So instead he continues to be the absolute worst conjunx in the history of the universe, saying nothing,  _ doing _ nothing as fragments of thought bounce uselessly around in his processor. Literally any reaction would be better than this, he notes objectively; better than virtually detaching from reality and leaving his mate to grapple with this massive bombshell on his own.

“Ratchet  _ please _ ,” Drift shaking ever so slightly now, the poor mech shrinking in on himself a little more with every moment of unbearable silence, “you can yell, you can be mad at me you can do whatever you need to do, just-  _ say  _ something.”

And then Ratchet looks--  _ really  _ looks at him. That’s what he does when he needs to be brought back to the present moment, when he forgets that he can afford to be kind and patient nowadays. Not that it's any great difficulty to find his gaze wandering to younger mech, as terribly easy on the optics as he is. He looks at that beautiful mech that he’s so grateful to call his conjunx and claws his way back to the world of the relatively reasonable where realization can come crashing promptly down on him.

Drift is sparked. A sparkling. 

His chassis throbs.

“Drift-- oh Primus,  _ Drift _ .” Ratchet lurches forward, narrowly catching a flash of surprise in the swordsmech’s optics before clutching his lithe tightly against his much bulkier one. Their armor connects with a resounding  _ clang  _ but he can’t bring himself to care, his spark is pulsing loudly enough in his audials that it barely registers.

After a few agonizing moments Drift clutches him back, vents hitching and  _ heaving  _ as he allows a sob to escape. Digits scrabble across smooth plating, looking for a place to grip as each of them very nearly try to absorb the other. It’s every bit as terrifying and humbling as he thought it would be, vents heaving with every little increment that the truth sinks in.

Minutes or maybe even hours pass like this, just entwined in the throes of confusion and tentative elation, rocking back and forth gently in their embrace. Ratchet holds his conjunx close and keeps him there, only pulling away to plant kisses anywhere he can reach.

“You’re an aft sometimes, you know that?” Drift asks, a choked laugh worming its way out of his unsteady vocals. He’s still trembling, maybe even more than he already was, plating chattering as he keeps his face firmly braced in the crook of the medic’s neck. Ratchet somehow clasps him tighter, as if he can protect him from a fear as old as time.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He’s smiling against the length of one of his finials, coolant tears peeking from the corners of his shuttered optics. This is a lot, this is entirely too much but it’s okay, at least he thinks it is. Uncertainty hangs thick in what minimal space remains between them, but they don’t shy away from it.=

“D-do you-? I know we had... we said not yet but~”

“We can keep it, Drift,” the weight in his arms suddenly sags, his conjunx gasping in relief. Something oddly raw, something  _ protective  _ pulses from the speedster, and even after thousands if not millions of years, Ratchet is still entirely familiar with the signs of a carrier who has already started to bond, “we can keep them.”

“Really?” his voice is timid but so full of emotion, disbelief chief among them. Ratchet nods.

“There are still some things we need to discuss, but… that choice belongs to you.” Drift pulls away ever so slightly, looking up at him with impossibly wide optics, a few stray tears tracing those distinctive red streaks.

“I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

“Like,  _ really  _ scared.”

“Sounds about right.” That gets a small laugh out of Drift, bringing Ratchet’s smile to a now painful intensity, “how long have you known?”

“This morning, I-- you left for your shift and I couldn’t keep my ration down,” he heaves a steadying vent, “didn’t wanna bother you so I ran a self-diagnostic.” Ratchet frowns.

“Drift--”

“I know, I know. I can bother you as much as I want,” he recites faithfully, “wasn’t exactly thinking it would be something so…”

“Small?” Ratchet offers quietly, daring to allow his digits to stray to Drift’s chassis, tracing the plating just above his spark. The gesture seems to to move Drift to trembling tears yet again, and Ratchet can do nothing but follow. The swordsmech reaches to bring his helm down and Ratchet doesn’t hesitate to meet him halfway, kissing him deep and slow. He’s been powerless to this mech for some time, but he had no idea how powerless he’d be to someone he hadn’t even met.

“I don’t know how to be a carrier, Ratchet.” 

“You’ll learn, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you all would like to see this continue :) Can you tell that I don't write in the present tense much? Lmk if you all like it like that or would rather have it in the past tense. This was a challenge in the sense that it's been awhile since I've written with characters so subliminally complex, and I really hope I've done and can continue to do them justice.


	2. Protocol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking things slow is a beautiful thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: baby's first robot smut
> 
> Apologies to everyone who likes the fandom-appointed profanities, I just can't work with them. Frag will never be as strong as fuck and that's just a fact. Thank you so much to everyone who read the first chapter, this got such a great response!!! I don't really have any idea what my updating schedule will be but I've got quite a bit of the story boarded out so far, so hopefully it'll be somewhat reasonable haha. This one's quite a bit longer than the last one, so expect lengths probably somewhere in the middle.  
> Anywho, enjoy :)

It’s leisurely and slow, thoughtful, intentional. Drift is exactly where he wants to be, engine purring as his hips work their way down over Ratchet’s, valve slipping carefully onto his thick spike. It’s heavenly, no matter how many times their panels come flush like this, red hands gripping his thighs with a thrilling strength.

“ _Primus_ Drift- gorgeous, so _fucking_ gorgeous.” He always babbles like this, but Drift still believes him, it’s taken a while, but he does. He leans down, brushing his lips briefly against Ratchet’s, exchanging overheated air as he stares into half-lidded, admiring optics. His servos rest flat against Ratchet’s broad windshield, where he can feel his spark thrumming wildly just beneath. 

Drift’s breath leaves him in an explosive burst when he finally musters the resolve to start moving, rising and sinking. He’ll never quite get used to how well Ratchet stretches him, how some days he swears he can feel the pressure all the way up to the back of his glossa. The way they fit together is almost too perfect, overwhelmingly so.

Interfacing with the former CMO is always divine, but he especially loves the way that his conjunx looks up at him from his laid out position on the berth, like he’s the most precious thing in the galaxy, like he can’t believe he’s really there. He likes how he feels entirely exposed yet completely safe, like he’s a treasure that’s meant to be admired.

He feels beautiful

Drift starts to ride the medic in earnest, bracing his heels on either side of his pelvis so that he can rock and tilt as he pleases. He tosses his helm back when Ratchet’s devious thumbs sink into the seams of his curvy thighs, finials almost scraping his spinal strut as he lets out a feral cry.

“You feel amazing, kid, so… so tight.”

He hears Ratchet huff and gasp beneath him, the sound accompanying a full body shudder. The medic jostles ever so slightly, a telltale sign that he’s about to take matters into his own hands, or rather pedes as they now push against the cushioned slab beneath.

Drift jolts when the tip of Ratchet’s spike collides with his ceiling node almost immediately, sending his thighs trembling uncontrollably, knees clattering against the berth. An assortment of raw _wrecked_ noises fall from his mouth with every rough thrust upwards from his conjunx.

“So good, Ratty- _hah_! S-so good~” he’s shaking all over, valve spiralling and fluttering around Ratchet’s pulsing length. He curls forward, no longer able to keep himself upright. Despite his blissful lack of coordination, he can’t keep his mouth off of Ratchet’s neck cabling once it’s within reach of his glossa, not when he’s rewarded with the most delightfully sinful growl he’s ever heard.

It’s so easy to let go of everything, to not think and just _feel_. One of Ratchet’s servos leaves his thigh to cradle his helm in the crook of his neck, the gesture so soft and unapologetically intimate that Drift could weep. Their rhythm remains insistent, and he can do nothing but go along for the ride, drunk on the feeling of their interwoven fields.

“Come on Sweetspark, let go for me~” 

A staggering cry falls from Drift’s mouth before he can even consider stifling it. Overload doesn’t take him gently, it rips through him, stealing his vision and his sense of balance. Ratchet’s hands can’t keep still, tracing every shuddering strut and seam on his convulsing frame. He tries to kiss him, but the level of concentration that requires is far too great, and he ends up gasping against his cheek instead.

The wild rippling of his valve soon pulls Ratchet into overload alongside him, length twitching and spurting within him. Drift squirms, savoring the bloom of warmth before noting it’s particularly unruly duration. He’s certainly not complaining, at least not until he feels the pang of shock that colors the medic’s field.

With a strained grunt, Ratchet’s back arches dramatically, spike continuing to fill his valve far past its capacity. It tingles all the way through him, tortuously prolonging Drift’s climax. When the tremors of ecstasy finally abate, vision flickering reluctantly back to life, he looks to his conjunx in concern.

It takes a few extra moments for the tension to disperse from the medic’s spinal strut, slowly lowering back to its flat position against the berth. Drift stares for a few moments, watching as he comes down from… whatever that was.

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.” he replies, grunting as Drift lifts off of his spent length to tuck himself into the crook of the medic’s arm, helm resting on his chassis. The wetness seeping from his overwrought valve is far more prominent than it usually is, he’s sure, leaving an overly prominent stickiness between the speedster’s ample thighs. 

“What was all that?”

“Sire protocols kicking in, fun stuff,” Ratchet replies breathily, digits tracing meaningless glyphs into Drift’s back. The younger mech cocks his head, imploring him to elaborate,“transfluid contains a decent amount of diluted energon and other minerals, making it easy to absorb. So basically it’s the sire’s way of contributing to construction; my tanks will completely empty themselves whenever we interface.”

“And mine take it up?”

“Mm-hm.” 

“Neat… does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“It’s painful for a few seconds, but it’s bearable, I promise.” he offers with a curt pat to his pauldron, “I’m just not used to it, yet.”

“So it’s true, then.”

“Mm?”

“That we should definitely interface a lot while I’m carrying,” Drift climbs on top of the medic once again, this time with marginally purer motives, “for health reasons.” Ratchet leans his head forward to where his nose can brush against Drift’s.

“Yes, I suppose we should,” he leans forward, and the resulting kiss is slow and tender, stealing any smart replies that the speedster can come up with. Thoroughly distracted, Drift only barely manages to stifle a peep of surprise when he feels a servo on the center of his chassis, “have you looked at them yet?” Ratchet asks quietly.

“...No.”

“Would you like to?”

“Is~ is it okay?” Drift asks timidly, suddenly and violently reminded of the sheer _realness_ of everything, a tremor of nervousness making his tanks churn. In the two days since finding out, he hasn’t found himself any closer to feeling even remotely prepared for what’s ahead of them, which isn’t terribly surprising all things considered.

“It’s perfectly fine, you just can’t touch the newspark directly,” Ratchet threads his digits carefully through Drift’s, giving his servo a reassuring squeeze,“they won’t do much responding yet, assuming you’re as early as I think you are.” Drift tries to swallow down the apprehension that swells in his throat. 

“Yeah…” a deep vent, a small nod, “yeah okay.” 

The two of them shift around just enough so that Ratchet is sitting up against the head of the berth, Drift perched in his lap, decidedly ignoring the mess still leaking from his valve. Normally this is where he would find himself whenever he could, he can get Ratchet flustered ridiculously easy this way, but now he’s stiff and unsure, none of his usual confident grace bleeding through. A gentle palm guides his optics upwards to meet Ratchet’s eternally patient ones.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Drift nods, but the medic clearly isn’t convinced, “we don’t have to do this right now, we can wait.”

“It’s just… it’s been a nice thought so far, but once I see them it’ll be real, and that’s terrifying...” Drift shutters his optics venting steadily to calm the racing of his spark. Ratchet hums thoughtfully.

“Would you like to know what you’ll see?” he asks, knowing that Drift rarely says no to more time spent listening to his gruff baritone voice.

“I’d like that.” 

“All it really is right now is a ball of energy and coding attached to your spark casing, a pre-conscious sub-physical entity,” he taps gently against the speedster’s chassis, voice slow and thoughtful, and ridiculously soothing, “making a new spark is a tricky process, so it feeds directly off of the carrier’s, while your gestation chamber constructs the casing.”

“And when the newspark is mature enough that’s where it travels right?” Drift offers, garnering a nod.

“Exactly, that’s when frame construction and real cognitive development starts,” as much he often feels out of his depth when it comes to this kind of stuff, he’ll never get tired of hearing him talk about what he loves, how passionate and well-versed he is, “and that’s when your spark can return some of its attention to regulating your fuel tanks and sensory calibration.”

“And that’s when I’ll stop getting sick?” Another nod.

“That’s also when you’ll need more fuel, since generating raw protometal is extremely resource-consuming, not to mention the reinforced protoform of your own frame will need to--” he stops suddenly, optic ridges furrowing, “sorry, I don’t mean to talk at you so much.”

“But I like hearing you talk.”

“There may come a time when you won’t.”

“Then just enjoy my amiability while it lasts.” he tries to reassure him, recognizing the very distinct _‘I’m trying to find a polite way to say this’_ face that only Ratchet can pull off.

“Listen I… I really don’t mean to ask this in an accusatory manner but-- how much do you know about carrying? About the process?” Drift frowns knowingly.

“I-- probably not as much as I should. I mean I know all the basics but… in the Dead End having a sparkling was bad news-- carriers would die in the gutters just because they couldn’t scrounge up enough fuel to support more than their own spark,” he has distinct memories of such fears during his time spent as a buymech, desperate and willing to do anything to make it through the night. He would drive himself to tears, worrying that he’d gotten sparked by whatever random mech had paid for a day’s worth of energon, “four million years ago this would have been my worst nightmare.”

“I’m sorry you had to endure that,” Ratchet tells him, and Drift is grateful for the absence of pity in his statement, “do you still feel scared?”

“Extremely, but for all the right reasons, I think,” he smiles up at the medic, “thanks to you.” Ratchet huffs a short laugh.

“Thanks to me not realizing that reproductive protocols would eventually reactivate in the absence of constant conflict and radiation.”

“I’m telling you, that’s what you get for getting handsy during movie night.”

“You kept trying to analyze the spiritual subtext of the film and I got irritated.”

“So you decided to spike me in Chromedome and Rewind’s habsuite?”

“Not my fault you decide to sit in my lap all the time.”

“You’re just lucky we didn’t get caught.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” Ratchet teases, thumbs tracing minute circles into the swordsmech’s hips, “besides, I’d like to think the results were well worth the risk.” That manages to send his spark aflutter, a tiny bout of warmth blooming within his chassis. Drift isn’t used to the softness in his voice, but then again he’s not used to the idea that he’s going to be a carrier, either. He honestly hadn’t expected his conjunx to react as positively as he did, although he hadn’t been entirely sure _what_ to expect. He shakes his helm decisively.

“Sorry, I’m totally stalling.” he shifts around once more, trying to relax his tense struts.

“No need to be sorry, kid. You sure you’re up for this?” Drift nods swiftly, sending the command to bare his spark before the nerves can have a chance to return, and before Ratchet can ask for confirmation one more time.

His chest parts slowly, a familiar pulsing blue light diffusing over the mech in front of him. He watches his mate’s reaction intently; and at first he says nothing, but then all at once Ratchet’s optics widen, an expression he’s never seen before crossing his face.

“There it is, right there.” Ratchet murmurs, leaning in ever so slightly. Drift steels himself before looking down to where a white digit is pointing. While objectively there’s hardly anything to look at, his optics are immediately drawn to a tiny cluster of light, clinging to the edge of his spark.

_My sparkling_

A servo flies to his mouth before a sob can escape. He looks up at Ratchet, searching for something to keep him tethered to reality, something familiar. The ambulance looks up at him with awe, optics shimmering. Red hands frame his chassis reverently, he’s never felt them shake like this before.

“We made that, Drift.” An incredulous laugh escapes him because wow _wow_ there’s a whole other being growing inside of him, one that’s a little bit him and a little bit the ambulance currently wearing a million-shanix smile. He’s only had the privilege of seeing this particular smile a handful of times in his life, and he reckons that he may be the only bot who’s gotten to see it at all. 

Ratchet wraps him in a crushing embrace the second his chest closes again, and Drift doesn’t hesitate to return it, squeezing until he’s sure his plating will dent.

“We can do this, right?” the speedster asks candidly, and maybe just a little excitedly.

“You’re damn right, we can.” And there’s no waver in his voice, just a jovial confidence that he finds himself envying just a little. But he knows now, knows definitively that it’ll be okay. Because he knows he already loves the little nondescript ball of energy more than he can fathom, and he loves the stubborn ill-tempered mech who will be with him the whole way.

“Love you so much~” Drift proclaims into his broad chassis, savoring that uniquely _Ratchet_ brand of security that washes over him.

“I love you, too. Always.”

They don’t separate for several minutes, giddy elation finally giving way to exhaustion. Drift only pulls away when Ratchet taps on his shoulder, gently removing the speedster from atop his thighs to retreat briefly to the other side of the darkened room, retrieving something from the shelf meant to store Drift’s mineral collection. Although it _had_ originally been used for storing medical data pads, Ratchet claims he doesn’t mind sacrificing the space for his conjunx’s “assorted chachkies”. 

“So listen I… I know it might get old-- having a know-it-all medic for the sire, so if you ever get tired of hearing things from me, here are some texts you can read instead,” when he returns to the berth, held out in Ratchet’s servo is his personal data pad, a handful of titles listed and highlighted on the screen, “this way you can know what to expect, instead of having me feed it to you piece by piece.” Drift takes the tablet from him, skimming the exhaustive collection.

“Ratchet this is… thank you.” He fights back another bout of tears, feeling the medic settle onto the berth behind him once again, pulling both of them to their sides so that he can assume his usual big spoon role.

“I can be considerate on occasion.” Ratchet presses a series of slow sweet kisses to one of his finials, pulling a contented purr from the speedster. 

“Mm… when can we tell everyone?” Drift asks tentatively, receiving a shrug in response, a familiar arm coming to wrap around his waist.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says simply, “I mean it’s none of their business, so you really don’t _have_ to tell anyone.” he adds in true Ratchet fashion.

“Well it’s _kind of_ their business, no one’s seen a sparkling in ages; they’ll have to watch their pedes all of a sudden.” He can practically feel the skeptical glare on the back of his helm.

“You planning on letting them have free reign of the ship or what?”

“You know, there are many benefits to fostering a sense of independence very early on in development.”

“Ah, that must be what happened to Rodimus.” Ratchet concludes casually, smiling as it sends Drift into a fit of laughter.

“You’re so rude!” he accuses, swatting the medic’s arm, “he’s the probably first person I'm gonna tell, you know.”

“Telling Rodimus is essentially the same as telling Swerve, so consider the entire crew notified in that case.”

“Well he's already suspicious after today,” Drift clarifies, shifting his pedes to tangle with Ratchet’s, “kept asking me how my ‘morning ration’ was and winking at me.”

“Primus, you’re late one day and he’s already speculating on our personal lives?”

“Believe it or not, he does that regardless of my punctuality.”

“Hmph.”

“He’s living through me vicariously, Ratchet,” Drift reports kindly, “not everyone can have a conjunx who traverses half the universe to be with them.”

“ _Hmph_.”

“I’ve given you glowing reviews, in case you were wondering.” Drift tells him, turning to shoot a sly grin.

“You know I bet First Aid could use some help cleaning up the medibay--” 

Ratchet makes to get up from the berth but Drift clings to his arm, laughing until his vents stutter. The medic relents immediately and turns back to him with a barely suppressed smile, pulses of admiration diffusing through his field.

He keeps laughing until Ratchet cuts him off with a kiss, his favorite way of being shut up.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Ratchet was a tad ooc in this but I'm not sure. Super random but like-- have yall seen catherine_sting's dratchet stuff on Instagram? So good??? Anywho, leave a comment if you enjoyed! I love hearing from you guys :)


End file.
